To Watch Over Her
by Ananke
Summary: Nine years post-finale, there have been changes and losses. There may be more. Through it all, one former drone and one former felon struggle not to fall apart at the seams.
1. One

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all related characters are owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement is intended.

*

Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not. Time takes it all, time bears it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again. (The Green Mile)

*

                Lying beneath the stars, with her daughter's tiny fist pressed fitfully to her heart, Annika Hansen often yearned for the cold absolution that the Borg collective had once offered.

                Drawing fingers from the cool, moist soil, the former drone tangled them briefly in the silken baby down that rested against her free arm, sighing slightly and shifting her gaze downward to take in the owner. "Stella." She murmured lightly, carefully observing the small, elfin little girl. Skin flushed with the fresh planetary air and rest, the child reflected deceptive health and peace, ashen curls clinging hotly to her neck and the naturally woven scarlet dress she wore. For the moment cobalt eyes were shut tightly, and the mother swiftly amended her plans to waken the child, instead gently standing and nestling the precious bundle against her chest.

                The stone ridden pathway that led to their modest bungalow cut into bare feet, but the woman forged on, with no regret. Few things in her life had proven as pleasurable as the afternoon spent running unhampered across the shore with her daughter, and she had long learned, in the most painful of ways, that such pleasures were swiftly gone, and to be savored. 

                "Rest well." She murmured into the girl's tangled hair, gently depositing her onto the comfortable settee located just inside the doorway. Pulling a painstakingly knitted blanket up to block the light breeze coming off the sea, Annika stepped back, observing her work and sighing faintly before moving into the room that served as office for both adult occupants of the home.

                "Computer, display all communication." She ordered firmly, and a daunting list of text-based and holo messages spooled across the terminal screen before her. Most were not atypical, even twelve point two years beyond Voyager's return from the Delta Quadrant; she was of interest in scientific and entertainment circles. Most were deleted with grim humor; a few captured her heartfelt attention. The first file was marked from Lieutenant Commander Kim, stationed in the Beta Quadrant; likely weeks delayed in arrival, and therefore low in urgency. The second was from Icheb, captain of the civilian scientific vessel Caprice, requesting her assistance with an apparently unsolvable and therefore personally disturbing Borg encryption. A holovid from Naomi Wildman followed, spiritedly sharing her acceptance letter from the Vulcan Science Academy and Ambassador Tuvok's offer to board her. 

                The fourth and live communiqué drew her attention immediately, and she fell, more than sat, into the chair nearby, watching and listening with a certain quiet hope, and certain quiet dread.

                "Annika." Strained as their relationship was, the man at the other end of the transmission remained one of the few people that had courtesy enough to use the human designation, but then, she supposed that he was familiar enough with unwanted identities. Staring, she observed the lines around his eyes, etched more deeply of late, speaking of equal tiredness and grief. The holo was framed not by his office, but the disordered surroundings of the home he kept on Kessick IV. "My son-in-law wanted you to know that he and Miral should be back this evening."

                "You could have informed me days ago. I would have prepared a more suitable meal. Stella and I do not require as much sustenance as a human male and maturing Klingonese child." She attempted cool tones, but anger crept through. "And despite what you may believe, these matters do concern me. You do not have to respect our cohabitation. Is it too much to ask that you respect my efforts to create whatever happiness I can for them, in the shadow of what once was?"

                The small, worn man dipped his head faintly, smile brief and stabbing. "More than I've learned to give, I suppose, but not too much on any humane scale. " Hesitation laced the tired voice. "I don't want to see him hurt again, Annika, there's a limit to what any man can take and come out whole. Oh, I know you'd never harm Paris intentionally, but I don't want to see **you **hurt. Guilt is a wonderful source of selfless sacrifice and motivation, but it also drains the best from a person, leads them into nightmares of fate." 

                "I was Borg." Squaring her palms on the smooth table surface, she stared directly at the terminal. "Borg drones are not intended to feel guilt."

                "Borg drones aren't intended to survive separation from their collective, either." He pointed out softly. "Yet there you sit, Annika."

                "Questioning my present situation is pointless." She countered, stiffening as the child stirred briefly before settling back down in the other room, resenting his ability to bring forth her defenses. "I need Tom Paris. I believe that he needs me. B'Elanna Torres and Chakotay are…they must be irrelevant. They are lost to us." The final words punctured the still air with finality. "And if it takes eternity, Tom and I will adapt to their absence. We will move on together."

                The words never fitted gracefully within her mind, never fell so from her mouth. Tom and I. Even spoken fondly, the terminology seemed desolate and crying, shrouded in emptiness. Eternity was such vast territory, and she and Voyager's former pilot were both so inept at handling such situations. Such commitments.

                John Torres shook his head, disrupting her thoughts. "Your time on Voyager should have taught you better, drone. Eternity is a word for fools and cowards. It either kills you early or you drown in it. It killed your husband and my B'Elanna..." His voice caught, dropped, tightened. "You have no Borg technology to escape it, now, do you? It will either kill you or drown you. Or perhaps both are the same. I don't know anymore, if I ever did. I'm just an old, inflexible fool."

                Annika could not disagree. Standing as the signal blackened to leave her alone again, she stared out the nearby window, taking in the falling dusk. 

                Nine years had passed since the deaths which John Torres seemed unable to forget, a few days more or less lost in the time cycle of this strange alien paradise that was proving anything but. _If I were still Borg_, she thought tightly, _I could easily maneuver the space/time continuum and retrieve my losses, our losses. _

                _If you were still Borg..._

                It was Chakotay's warm tones that drifted in from memory, stabbing westward to the heart. 

                _If you were still Borg...I'd be lost._

                "You are." She whispered, eyes closing. "And I cannot retrieve you." Standing swiftly, she ordered the lights in the suffocating office down, striding out to the threshold between living area and corridor, taking in the soft, even breaths and shadowed outline of her daughter. "And if I could retrieve you, I would not have this." Releasing a small sigh, she crossed her arms and glanced at the illuminated chronometer on the nearby mantel. It was late; Paris would have arranged a meal in transit for he and Miral. Nothing was expected of her. Lifting a hand to rub at the soreness in her neck, the former drone stepped further into the main living area, watching her daughter with uncertainty. Stella rarely slept so peacefully.

                It frightened her. Stepping towards the sofa, she bent awkwardly to kneel low, using shaky fingers to brush sweaty strands of hair from the small, dainty features, resting her head against the small chest, soaking in the small heartbeat. 

                So small it was, and eternity so vast.

                Standing and shaking her head to ward off the threatening panic, she spoke softly. "Computer, restrict all access to nonresidents of this home."

                As soon as the agreeing chirp sounded, Annika dimmed the lights manually and passed the master bedroom, instead seeking the uncomfortable but efficient alcove she had was more accustomed to. In it, at least, darkness was warm.

TBC


	2. Two

                                Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all related characters are owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement is intended.

                                ---

                                _"Seven."_

                                There was dust, cloying and rank. It clogged her lungs, forcing her nanoprobes to counterattack with unusual vigor. Her ears rang, and the voice approached from a distance. Grinding her eyelids more tightly shut, she involuntarily gasped as the figure rose before her, hair ruffled, eyes bloodshot and pained, voice bordering on panic. They were surrounded in darkness, yet even through the visor of her standard EVA/bio suit he appeared unnatural, the latter stages of radiation poisoning evident.

                                "Seven!"

                                Hands were on her shoulders, shaking violently, a grip threaded with anger and far more potent panic. Opening her eyes, the former Borg managed a hostile glare, unaccountably bereft at the lost of a memory none too pleasant, and almost at once shamed into relief by the gifted worry of the man before her.

                                Swallowing more visibly than she suspected he intended, Tom Paris sighed, using his grip to propel her from the alcove and into the crook of his arm. "I want you to go to bed, Seven. I'm ripping the alcove apart tomorrow."

                                "I was fine." She protested, fingers escaping his hand, inching up to rest upon his heart. Accelerated pulse, fear at her behest…the last time she had sensed such terror in him the pilot had been pulling her bodily from the cavernous facility that would shortly become tomb to Chakotay and Commander B'Elanna Torres. "You should have left me alone." She informed him resentfully, nails scraping roughly.

                                "I'm glad to see you too, sweetheart." Sarcasm cut through the sleepiness in his voice as Paris retrieved her hand, tucking slender fingers into his fist, squeezing, an embrace, a warning. "And I beg to differ. You were screaming. Miral checked on Stella before going back to bed, luckily she didn't wake."

                                "Oh." Feeling brief alarm and shame, the former drone allowed him to lead her to the bedroom, watching with distinct perplexity as he went about the process of preparing for sleep once more. It made no sense to her, how an individual who thought so little of organization in waking hours could don such a strict regime after dark fell. The minor rituals became a fever for him once the moon rose.

                                Perhaps it was fear of anything less than complete control in darkness. She thought she understood that single compulsion, or at least the loss from which it stemmed. "My alcove…" She began uncertainly, fingers grasping a corner of sheet and balling tightly.

                                "I'm tearing it apart tomorrow." His gaze lingered and she twitched nervously, bare toes digging into the plush carpeting. 

                                "It was only a nightmare!"

                                He sighed, stepping back in her direction, brushing a thumb under her chin. "Just like every other dream you've had since…I don't think this is what the Doctor intended when he removed restriction on your cortical node. You've got no way to deal with it, no emotional shields to fall back on. Memory becomes a trap for you. And the alcove is a crutch that only aggravates it all. You don't need it to regenerate, and it isn't doing you any good on any emotional level. All you do is stand there and think about…you know, scratch that, I don't want to know what you think about. It's a crutch, that's all."

                                "Is this also not a crutch?" Standing, Annika moved away and opened the closet doors, flinging nine standard years worth of accumulated memory aside in favor of one small box. Opening it, she held out the battered old toy. Toby the Targ had passed his time of life and prosperity long ago. _It is ugly_, she thought resentfully. _There is no point in retaining such symbols._

                                Tom's eyes glittered dangerously, his voice shaking her out of the trance. "That, Sev, happens to be Miral's inheritance. I trust you'll find something better than a Borg alcove for Stella?" Turning, he stomped back to the bed, burrowing back into the nest of covers.

                                "I apologize." Sitting gingerly on the other side, she leaned over, lifting the sheet to meet his gaze. "Please do not avoid me."

                                "Go to sleep." Pumping the pillow up, Voyager's former pilot rolled over and buried himself in the covers.

                                _For a man of middle-age, you are capable of being very childish._ Shoving the thought and subsequent kernel of irritation away, she sighed. "I would prefer to remain awake…but very well, if you insist." Slipping off her robe, the former drone inched beneath the covers, sitting thoughtfully for a moment and staring down at him. "It has been a very inefficient day."

                                A faint snort rose from beneath the pillow before its owner sat back up, staring at her with bleary eyed impatience. "Yes." He agreed; tones measured with frustration. "It has."

                                "I believe I may rest more peacefully now that you are home." She swallowed further complaint wistfully, reclining and turning to face the wall. As Paris sighed again and his warm hands made a grab and pulled her close, she settled against his chest and involved her own hands in other pursuits. 

                                "Seven." Paris groaned, but the sound seemed less good-humored than hollow, his gripping hands more brutal than hugging. "I'm too old for this."

                                "You were not too old to enter into a piloting contest several star systems away." She advised distantly, a hand cupping his chin, nails digging for solidity once more and skimming the stubble, gold and ash peppered with spun silver. "As I recall, it was a somewhat illicit contest."

                                "That was different." His breath tickled her throat, a thin rivulet of blood cold against her skin. "Miral wanted to fly. She won, too."

                                "I trust that the competition officials did not approve of the eventuality of a twelve year old winning?"

                                "You wouldn't believe how fast that kid can run." Self-deprecating laughter rumbled as Voyager's former pilot buried his head on her bare shoulder. A trail of blood there, too, she often scratched more deeply than intended. He seemed somewhat immune to the pain.

                                "But your visit to Kessick was not solely for the purpose of entering a piloting contest, was it?"

                                His head lifted, pale blue eyes narrowing, a hand deliberately swiping across his chin and grabbing the white sheet to use as a rag. "What makes you ask that?"

                                "I spoke to John Torres today."

                                "He was supposed to tell you to expect us, yeah. I know we ran a little late, but…"

                                "If John had his way you would not have returned at all." Brows crinkling, the former Borg struggled to touch upon the feelings of dread so strong of late. 

                                "I did return, Seven. I always have." Paris reminded firmly. "And Torres has no authority over my life."

                                "At times I must admit that I wonder."

                                "All right…" Voyager's former pilot sat up, facing her. "Let it out, will you? What is it that's bothering you now?"

                                "It is…do not concern yourself. It's nothing. I'm only being foolish." Gently pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him back down, she lay back as well, closing her eyes in a fanciful attempt to preserve the warmth and peace of the moment as he moved back against her. "Stella and I returned to the shore today. She desired to run through the water. It drained her strength more quickly than usual. I am concerned, Tom."

                                "I'll call Doc tomorrow." His own tones changed by degrees, genuine concern tipping the scales. Lifting an arm, he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I was so sure she was better. Some medic, huh?"

                                "Former medic." She corrected absently. "You could not have anticipated a relapse. She is dependent to the nanoprobes I passed on to her. They are unpredictable variables at best." It was a subject they had edged around before, and faced head on with disastrous results, the addiction. "Perhaps…"

                                "We've been over this before." 

                                "Perhaps we need to rehash it, then. We need contingencies. None of the treatments thus far have cured Stella. Eventually they will fail to work at all." Closing her eyes, she recalled the stark paleness of the toddler's face against the dune weed, the almost asthmatic breaths after little more than an hour playing on the shore.

                                He pulled away, turning away. "She's not fucking inheriting your alcove, Seven." 

                                Annika turned away wordlessly.


	3. Three

Disclaimer: Se preceding chapters. I don't own anything.

Note: No reviews yet? Come on. First series I manage to post continuously and keep relatively together and not a review YET?

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                                She awoke as dawn sent its first rays through the slatted wooden blinds of the bay windows, shivering further into the tangle of sweat ridden cover as a cold wind blew off the shore. The natural process of human temperature adaptation was more inadequate than she had ever suspected before the removal of her implants. She often resented the lack of a warm body to cling to in early morning hours.

                                Brushing the thoughts away and sitting straight up, Annika sniffed lightly, eyes opening to contemplate the sticky disaster that had somehow, in a night filled with less than pleasant dreams and tossing, become her hair. Faint giggles erupted from near the doorway. Standing, she pulled on a robe, staring at her guests. "Good morning."

                                "I told you she'd be cranky." Miral Paris informed her cohort, stepping further into the room and smiling rather too angelically up at the adult instead.  Stella only sighed, angling her face up for a good morning kiss before dancing away.

                                "We were supposed to come and wake you for breakfast." Miral explained after a moment, holding up her tanned, thoroughly coated palms. "Dad is fixing strawberry pancakes."

                                "I trust your samples revealed them to be delicious, as usual?" Ignoring the older girl's less than charming nickname for her companion and gripping the proffered hands, Annika stared at them critically, and then returned her gaze to her daughter. "Stella created this mess completely by herself, I presume?"

                                "Sure." Miral tried to move away.

                                "Miral Paris, I know you better. I trust that you will find a better story by this evening?"

                                The quarter Klingon huffed, shaking her hands free and glaring up.

                                "I also trust you will not mind joining your sibling in a bath now that you have both clearly overindulged before breakfast has even begun?"

                                "Seven." The quarter Klingon pleaded. "We'll miss Dad's new holovid airing in the colony hall if we don't hurry."

                                "If you are efficient you will freshen and transit to the hall with generous time to spare." Pursing her lips, the former Borg hid a tired smile. "Am I right?"

                                "Yes, ma'am!" Miral grabbed her fully human sibling by the arm. 

                                A chuckle rose from the doorway. "I never got off that easy when I was a kid."

                                "Dad!" Miral's hiss heralded terrible things to come if he ruined matters.

                                "You can relax, ghubDaQ." Paris scolded lazily, brows lifting. "You're going, unless you waste your time standing there and arguing." Ignoring her heaving sigh of frustrated relief, the pilot lifted the smaller child into his arms, grinning. "You, on the other hand, Stella, get us all to yourself this morning." Meeting her mother's eyes, he managed a strained smile. "Doc has agreed that it's time for a checkup. He'll be here in a few hours."

                                Annika moved forward, sympathy in her tones as her fragile daughter groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. "The Doctor is your friend, Stella. You always enjoy his company. All will be fine." Rubbing circles into the small back, she forced levity into her tones, smiling more brightly at her family. "I suggest we proceed with our morning routine until his arrival. Miral, you will clean yourself and the…whatever trails you may have left in your wake. Stella, join your sister in her bath and clean your own quarters. You will both then reconvene in the dining room. Strawberry pancakes, Tom?"

                                "He makes the best!" Stella became happier immediately, squirming from the protective arms that held her and rushing out the door, Miral at her heels.

                                "I owe you." Paris muttered, running a hand through tousled hair.

                                "You owe me nothing." Brushing past her companion, the former Borg headed for the armoire, briskly pulling out her preferred attire of the day, a pants suit both casual and comfortable. Reinforced clogs joined the suit on the floor, and she allowed her fingers to part the folds of the remaining attire hanging within the closet, drawing it all aside to touch the satiny, dusty, and somewhat faded material far towards the back. The exoskeletal costume and heeled boots no longer proved necessary or feasible, yet she...missed them.

                                Crutches.

                                Snapping the armoire door shut with a clatter, she turned, crossing her arms. "Do not dismantle my alcove. Without it, my doubts would kill me."

                                Tom closed the distance between them in an instant. She did not fight his embrace.

                                "Doc's here early!" Miral's strident tones echoed through the house, and Paris stepped away swiftly, smiling curtly. 

                                "Everything will work out, Seven, just give it time."

                                "I suppose we will see." Straightening, the former drone nodded. "Proceed ahead and begin the examination. I'll be dressing and seeing Miral off."

                                "If you want me to stay, I will." Miral slid in as her father slid out, miraculously scrubbed and dressed, ridges furrowed lightly.

                                "No…" Slipping into her clothing and running a comb through her hair, Annika offered a tight smile to her adopted daughter. "Your father put a great deal of effort into the holofilm and you have been anticipating it. Stella will be here when you return."

                                "I guess so." Heading for the veranda door, Miral smiled. "I'm just glad it's not me being scanned."

                                "I'm certain that an early pubescent physical can still be arranged." Pushing the child through the door with one hand, the former done offered a slightly more sincere smile, shutting the door and watching the dark-headed figure disappear behind foliage.

                                Sighing, she headed down the hallway and paused just inside the doorway to the family room, watching the scene quietly. Seated on a nearby table, Stella was alternately kicking directly through the Doctor's holographic field and casting her father forlorn looks.

                                "Be good, will you?" Paris coaxed, employing his own medical tricorder with one hand to verify the data the EMH was picking up, trying to still the small feet with the other. "It isn't like he's hurting you. You know, in the 20th century, they used these cold metal instruments to check heart rate and wood sticks to check your tongue…"

                                "Enough torture stories, Mr. Paris." Punching a final button, the Doctor frowned at his patient and turned to smile at his former protégé. "Seven! You'll be pleased to know that she has your beauty as well as her father's irrationality, and a burgeoning intellect that may erase the latter with time."

                                "Thank you, Doctor." Suppressing a smile, Annika moved to her daughter's side, letting the slender arms and legs to wrap around her neck and waist. "How is she?"

                                His expression sobered, as did that of his former medical assistant. "I'd like to modify some of your remaining Borg technology and nanoprobes to suit Stella's system." The EMH offered a smile to the small child at last, snapping his medical kit shut. Stella grinned in turn, climbing down from her mother's grip. Annika frowned slightly up at her mentor and friend, finally releasing her charge, who headed promptly for the door.

                                "Doc…" His former medical assistant began, standing and pacing as the door shut behind the youngster.

                                "I can put it no more plainly than this." The Doctor preempted any diatribe forcefully. "The child is outgrowing the parameters of what nature…and the Borg affinities she inherited…intended. She possesses an addiction to a certain degree of mechanical operation, depends upon it for her body to function as it should. As you are aware, earlier procedures have failed to destroy that addiction. At best, we may feed it and sooth it. I have no intention of assimilating the child, Mr. Paris. Nanotechnology is merely an advanced option…"

                                "Yes, an illegal option, for a reason. Stella can't very well help what she was born with, but injecting more of them into her…there are people willing to kill for the stuff."

                                "As I recall, people have also been willing to kill Seven for many years. You've shown no hesitation in protecting her. Are you suddenly tired of the responsibility, or have the last few years created a man too frightened to care again?" The formerly static tones lowered to faintly malicious levels.

                                "That will be enough, Doctor." Annika stood, shaking her head warningly.

                                "That's all right." Tom's own words reflected icy disregard, his face drawn and white. "We've been through this respect and lack thereof song before, haven't we, Doc?"

                                The hologram didn't blink, taking his belongings in hand and preparing to activate the transport technology that would have him wherever he desired to go in seconds. "I suggest that you consider the other option in more depth, Mr. Paris…attempting to completely strip Stella of the nanoprobes as you have suggested before could very well kill her."

                                "And removing them from Seven to give them to Stella is any better an idea? Seven barely survived her earlier operation to do so, and we didn't even get everything out. _And she hasn't been the same since_." Paris spoke tightly, hands clenching.

                                The holograms last words and look were acidic. "I'll expect a decision in a few weeks. Contact me if you need me, Seven." With a tap of his com badge, the Doctor dematerialized.

                                Standing, the former drone lifted a glass from the nearby table, turning to face her companion and instead finding her gaze trapped by the grip she held on the thin crystal. It was a pale hand, limber and elegant, but naked, as the other had been recreated aboard Voyager. Stripped of any and all ties to the technology that had been survival and strength for the majority of her life, it seemed alien. It was a hand that he feared, greatly. Wheeling, Annika captured her mate's arm as he passed in his own frenetic pacing, forcing the wan blue gaze. 

                                "I want her to be happy." Tom offered, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. "But I want you to be safe."

                                "I do not believe that my safety is the issue.  The thought of inserting my nanoprobes in our daughter frightens you, and offends you. You want her to be merely human!" Involuntarily her tones rose, breaking off. Stiffening her shoulders, the former drone fought for control, lowering her voice. "My safety is irrelevant. I want her to be whole."

                                "And you would be without your lethal weapons, supposing you survived?" Tones bitter, Paris sat on the sofa, rubbing at his face, expression bleak. "Forget it, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero. My daughter was never assimilated, and she never will be…no more than you'll ever be completely dissimilated."

                                "My daughter was born with assimilation technology dormant in her bloodstream, and unless those imperfect deposits are compensated with more nanites, she will die. There is no fate I consider worse. But perhaps you have forgotten precisely what death took from us, Mr. Paris. Or perhaps you do not care."

                                The blow came swiftly, unexpectedly, and her own hand flew up to cradle her jaw in surprised pain, even as he backed away, fists clenching behind his back. After a long moment, Voyager's former helmsman spoke, eyes seizing, tones clipped and controlled. "We'll talk about it later, rationally. I'll join Miral at the colony hall." Slinging a forgotten medical tricorder off the table, he left, ignoring the small child standing by the doorway, brows knitted.

                                "Mama?" Stella queried cautiously, poking a toe into the doorway and frowning.

                                "All is well." Carefully turning to hide an undoubtedly red cheek, the former drone leveled her tones. "Why don't you go change into your swim wear? We can visit the shore…" Voice trailing, she winced, leaning forward to peer into a nearby mirror. 

                                "All right, if you say." The child hung hesitantly near the door for a moment before finally moving off upstairs.

                                Annika sighed.


	4. Four

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all related characters owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement intended.

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                                Moving away from the mirror and lifting the roughly discarded tricorder from the floor, Voyager's former drone absently turned, gaze swiveling to the window. Paris was already disappearing down the back trail to colony central; business receptacle in hand, Hawaiian shirt glinting garishly in the spots of sunlight. Faded though the attire was, it was a remnant of Voyager that he refused to part with.

                                Carefully aligning the tricorder along the table edge again, she reached for the nearby communications terminal, inputting her desired connection by rote and sitting on the edge of a nearby chair, back prickling with tension.

                                "Seven!" The gravelly greeting that broke through the barely cleared transmission was a clear mixture of surprise and unease. "I intended to contact you later this evening."

                                "Yes, of course." The conversations they had set aside in nine years…_since Chakotay's death_…had always run like clockwork, weekly, precisely thirty Terran moments of strained inquiries into health and family and work. "It could not wait, Admiral. I need your counsel."

                                "I see." Even through distance and terminal screen, it was not difficult to see the surprise in the tired face, the wary guard. "This is new. It's been a while since you've asked me for anything."

                                "I would not ask now if I did not find it critical…" Deep-seated embarrassment rose first, and then anger. Shifting, Annika crossed her arms, pacing.

                                "That isn't what I meant, Seven." Janeway spoke carefully, words measured with wry humor. "I'm pleased to hear from you, and that you seek my advice. Its worth is doubtful, but your thoughtfulness is not. Stop that walking, I can't see you. The channel is secure. Now what is it you need?"

                                Sitting suddenly in a nearby chair, Voyager's former drone sighed. "It is Tom."

                                "Isn't it always?"

                                Casting the view screen a frown, she continued. "The conflict involves Stella…as well as John Torres, to a certain extent. I am uncertain about the Doctor…"

                                "That's quite a collection." The Admiral nodded slightly, lifting her mug for a sip before continuing. "Stella is ill again, and you have things in mind that I, as a representative of Federation law, should likely not hear of in any detail. Tom is being a perfect gentleman and stubborn as a targ in his refusal to allow you to play martyr. Well? Is that the gist of it?"

                                "I continue to forget how shrewd you can be." 

                                "They were simple deductions, Seven. The only thing you forget is how well I know both of you." Voyager's former captain knitted her brows. "The Doctor has heard my opinion on his frankly dangerous ideas. Where does John Torres fit in?"

                                "That is what I thought _you_ would know."

                                "Hi, Admiral. Can we go now, Mama?" The door slid open and Stella raced in, tapping a foot impatiently, her mother's hand down sun hat falling dangerously low to cover one eye. Shoving it back up, she frowned. "Can we?"

                                "I'm sorry …we'll have to continue this conversation later." Turning back to the view screen, Annika lifted her hands in a quiet gesture of surrender.

                                "Yes, later, of course…and think nothing of it." Kathryn Janeway smiled. "Go spend time with your daughter, Seven. Leave the difficulties with those of us equipped to handle them." Before response could be given, the transmission ended and a dark screen stared back.

                                "_Mama_…"

                                "I am coming, Stella. Be more patient." Gaze lingering briefly on the terminal, Annika reached for the traditional beach accessory basket. _Shrewd and not always helpfully so…I have become paranoid. _Straightening, she grasped the small hand of the child waiting nearby, leading the way outside.

---

                                "They call it Yaupon…" Voyager's former astrometrics officer explained patiently, guiding the small hand beneath her own over the marshland plant that she so loved. "It was introduced to this planet by a man named Chakotay several years before your birth. Most do not consider it especially beautiful, but it has use. Long ago, the natives of the Earth continent North America created a purifying drink from the berries of this plant."

                                "It's really pretty. Can I eat a berry, please?" Solemn blue eyes peered up, and Annika smiled, smoothing a flyaway lock of golden hair from the porcelain face. Hours had passed on the beach, and Stella seemed still insatiable…and tireless. _Perhaps I am too paranoid and she is not so ill…_

                                "I don't think so! Isn't that poisonous?" Large hands scooped the girl up from the sand, lifting her into the air, and she giggled helplessly, staring back down at her mother.

                                "Your father is correct. It would probably be an unwise thing to ingest." The former drone admitted, standing and sweeping sand from her bare knees. 

                                "Miral brought sweets home." Paris offered at the baleful glare shot his way. "Why don't you go filch some before she finishes?"

                                "Not too many, Stella!" Her mother interjected, hands resting on her hips, a second glare transferring to the former pilot.

                                He laughed, and then sobered, moving closer and offering a hand filled with flowers. "You two spend a lot of time out here, don't you?"

                                "I find it peaceful, without being completely silent." She acknowledged, ears taking in the lapping tide behind them. "It provides ample space for Stella to explore."

                                "I want to apologize for earlier…"

                                "Unnecessary…" Voice subdued, she accepted the tokens, eyes warily absorbing his smile, teeth catching on her lower lip briefly. "We are both under a great deal of stress…"

                                "Is that to be the excuse of the day?" He grimaced, bending to touch the petals gently. "I remember this one. You insisted on potting it when we moved into the cottage. The cases were delivered at midnight, you were pregnant and sick as all hell but refused to change out of your robe or put on slippers until every sample was done perfectly. As I recall, it took two days, an Admiral, a hologram, and a Vulcan to entice you off that patio."

                                "Chakotay loved the plant. And I suppose I can be somewhat stubborn." His companion admitted cautiously, fingers twining about the flower stem, hair loosening in the sudden breeze.

                                "You think only somewhat?" He kidded; standing and trailing her back toward the seaside cottage they had made into a seasonal home and the two children waiting just outside, sweets in hand. "And Chakotay didn't have to live with the cold you got…" His voice fell off, eyes shuttering. "Sorry."

                                Casting only a passing frown in his direction, she bent to retrieve the scattered toys before facing him completely. "I intended to germinate a new selection of samples in the upcoming year with Stella…but I suspect she may not be here at that time. I wanted her to at least touch Yaupon. You should be pleased. It is a purifying plant."

                                "I'm not." Exhaling slowly, he paused, turning to face her in the dying light. "Seven, we've been living together for the better part of a decade…nine years. From my limited experience, I actually thought we were happy. Now in the last year everything has unraveled. The relationship, the family…hell, we can't even hold our friendship together, and that's about the only thing either of us has left. All we seem to do is hurt one another."

                                "You do not understand me, my frustration. I love my daughter. You cannot expect me not to fight for her life…you cannot possibly understand. Miral is yours. I have only one living child. I could not bear to lose Stella."

                                "And you think I could? You think I could bear to lose my daughter, our daughter, or you, Seven?" Paris flushed, eyes darkening. "I'm not convinced that the Doctor's way is the only way. There have to be alternatives…ways that won't take from you, ways that won't borgify that kid and leave her a target for every greedy treasure hunter in the quadrant." Lifting an arm to glance at his chronometer, he sighed. "Look, I have an appointment with the Admiral." Bussing her on the cheek, he grinned at his daughters as they drew close. "And maybe Miral can show you how to fix that fruit salad her grandfather concocted. It has strawberries."

                                "I will not be tempted from the topic at hand." The former drone muttered as he strode back towards the shuttle port, crossing her arms.

                                "Of course you will." Miral grabbed the arm of the only mother she remembered, towing her sister with the other hand. "Whatever the topic was….and why couldn't we go? I like the Admiral. It better not be a business meeting, Dad's supposed to be on vacation.  Is it about modifying the Flyer again? Does he ever give up?"

                                "Are you kidding?" Stella questioned, wrenching free of the death grip and bounding ahead to open the door.

                                "No." Her mother offered, ruffling the head of blonde as she passed and sighing slightly. "I do not think he does give up. Stella, please go change."

                                "That meeting isn't about the Delta Flyer, is it?" Swallowing the last of her candy, Miral trailed her companion into the kitchen, sitting on a stool and staring. 

                                "Why do you believe that?"

                                The young woman smiled, teeth baring slightly, blue eyes hardening. "I saw the blood, you know. Stella did too. I told her I had a nightmare, woke up and hit the door, cut myself, went and crawled into bed with you two last night. She believed me, too, good thing my blood is red, not purple. Do you like hurting Dad as much as he likes hurting others?"

                                "Your father is not a man who takes pleasure from the pain of others, Miral." Slamming a drawer shut, the former drone closed her eyes, shoulders squaring.

                                "Dad and Grandpa were holed up in the study all weekend. We almost missed the race, and Dad was mad at me because I pulled him away from whatever he was working on to catch the last minute shuttle. He hit me. It was okay, he was sorry…_horrified_…the minute he did it, and I think we reached an understanding. I inherited both his temper and a Klingon one, you know." The twelve year old leaned back on her perch and frowned, brow ridges crinkling in apparent concentration. "My grandfather knows nothing about the Delta Flyer, and Dad is never that involved in it these days. He says it reminds him of my moth…" The quarter-Klingon swallowed the last word in a rush, wincing. "Sorry. But the point is, he's mean lately, Seven. Like he's got his mind on something and the rest of us are just crash dummies in his path."

                                "Crash dummies, I see." Crossing her arms, the former drone lifted a brow in thought. "Many things could have caught your father's attention. He and your grandfather…perhaps they are only informal meetings…the anniversary of your mother's birthday is approaching."

                                "He tries to forget those, too."

                                "Or perhaps…it is soon to be Harry Kim's promotion ceremony. They must be planning a surprise."

                                "And Granddad cares about Harry? They've barely met."

                                "It could be about Admiral Janeway, then." Irritation began to gnaw, and Annika glared. 

                                "And you weren't invited? You don't really think she hates you that much, do you, Seven?"

                                "No…" After a long moment of thought, the answer came softly. "But I suppose that I may be an unwelcome reminder of Chakotay's fate, and how he met it." Uncrossing her arms, she reached out a hand to touch the lightly ridged forehead, smiling slightly. "I am certain that it is nothing, Miral. Your father and I will discuss his behavior very soon. Now, run along upstairs and aid Stella. I have business to attend to."

                                "I thought you and Dad were on vacation until we returned to Earth. You promised, remember?"

                                "Well…this is not work, precisely. It is…research on a topic I am interested in. It will affect all of us."

                                "Seven, we will all be going back to Earth this winter together, won't we?" Brief, naked trepidation crossed the tanned, keen face, a miniature of B'Elanna Torres'.

                                "Why would you believe otherwise?" Grasping a small shoulder, the former drone lowered her tones. "We do not break our vows, Miral. We are a family. And we will remain such. If you are concerned about your sister…"

                                "Everyone is. Everyone loves her, losing Stella would be terrible. But I know it may happen. I've accepted it, like I accepted Mom's death. I just don't think I could take losing anyone else."

                                "You won't." Hand moving to stroke the tawny head of her adopted daughter, Annika sighed. "I assure you with every breath I have, you will lose no one else. Not even Stella."

**To Be Continued**


End file.
